


No Catch

by Call_Me_Kayyyyy (Cheeky9274), Starkissed1



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU - No Powers, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Hurt/Comfort, Life After War, Living with PTSD, Multi, New polyam relationship, Polyamory, Therapy, existing Bucky/Nat, existing Steve/Nat, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27676517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cheeky9274/pseuds/Call_Me_Kayyyyy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starkissed1/pseuds/Starkissed1
Summary: Rumor has it that Natasha joined a cult, so Bucky comes to investigate what’s really going on. This community has some basic expectations, lofty goals, and Steve Rogers. Little Stevie from grade school grew up—going from an undersized defender of the innocent to guardian of those broken and rebuilding. When Bucky’s nightmares return, Natasha won’t let him do this alone. Steve is there to help figure out what Bucky needs: a friend? a guardian? something more? What can they all build together, that they struggle to do apart?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24
Collections: Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What is this? [(not) Another Stucky Big Bang](https://notanotherstuckybb.dreamwidth.org/)? This crew has been wonderfully encouraging to work with. I appreciate the opportunity to create in an aware and supportive space. Call_me_Kayyyyy has been a fabulous partner to bounce ideas off and put up with my bouts of writer's block. Also, this is a shout out to [UndeadRobins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UndeadRobins/profile) \- who offered up beta services through FandomTrumpsHate. This partnership got off the ground with a donation to [Unsilence](https://www.unsilence.org/), an organization focused on broader civics education. I hope you enjoy our efforts. - SK

The base was buzzing. Apparently, Nat was at “that compound” upstate. Such a phrase carried all sorts of implications. The gossips had also used “cult” and “brainwashing” in the same hushed tones. As if said too loudly, they too were at risk of subversion. “Why else would she leave? How could she? Her life is here.” They asked questions without understanding how ignorant they sounded. If they truly thought brainwashing was an option, they had no idea who they were dealing with. 

The place was easy to find. Sure, compound was a possible description for the little community in the middle of farmland. There were communal spaces, multi-person housing, work schedules, and group meals. The area was home to about 125 people, including children. She had been there half a year. But, why?

It’s not like she was hiding. There had not even been a rudimentary attempt made at cover. Her face had been nightly news. Certainly, most of the people who were introduced to the red-headed Natasha Romanoff connected her to the spy who blew the whistle. The deep connections were not so easy to track down. She had put her own money into the group, not an insignificant amount. It went through shell companies and such, but it was obviously her. 

At least, it was obvious to Bucky. 

There were no gates, nor any guards. It was midday and driving onto the property was easy. There was a lot where he could park. He got out and leaned against the door. People smiled. Individually, three adults and one pre-teen asked if they could help. They all got the same response, “Just waiting on a friend.”

Eleven minutes and 37 seconds after parking, the call out was unmistakably her, “James! I wasn’t expecting you.” She looked good—healthy and confident. She always looked confident. 

“It’s not like you have a phone number.” They were testing the waters, so he kept his hands down, his shoulders relaxed, and boots crossed. The BDU’s and t-shirt were his on-duty uniform as well as his off-duty choice, so he pushed out as much of a “social call” impression as she was likely to believe.

Even with her hair tied back loosely and her similarly open stance, there was nothing to learn. Nat never gave anything away for free. “Don’t need one.” 

“Hmmm.” He pushed away from the car. “Where can we talk?”

She looked around and the corner of her lips lifted. She tilted her head towards the playground. 

Natasha sat on a swing, because of course she would. It was innocuous. But, it also allowed them full range of vision as they faced each other. He leaned on a support post and watched her sway in her chosen seat. She really did look good. Her hair shone and she was wearing color. It had been a long time since he had seen her in something other than black. This was a deep, dusky green.

“What is going on here?” Bucky would rather not talk around a topic for days and never approach it directly. That was her strategy. 

She glanced up at him. She kept her gaze far when she answered. “It’s Tuesday, so there’s field work to be done, I have a class later, and there will be tacos for dinner.”

He rolled his eyes. “If you’re not going to answer, why did you agree to talk to me?”

“I’m fine, James.” She answered the question he intended by not answering it at all. She continued to scout the distance. He was unsure if she was doing it out of habit, or doing it to make him feel comfortable. 

“Natasha. I got back to base and they said you’d gone rogue; that you resigned your commission and walked away; that you joined a cult.”

She smiled in that way that brought to mind she could detail the lengths of your idiocy in at least 5 languages and was not using any of them. “Fury gave me some time.” She stopped swinging and looked straight at him. “No James. I have not resigned. I did not join a cult. Look around.” She followed with an order he had heard hundreds of times, “Сообщи, солдат.”

He stood tall and gave the report she requested. “There are multiple ways on to and off of this property. There are at least 27 adults and 8 children immediately in the vicinity. An expected 70-80 are in the buildings or in the fields. 11 people left the grounds today. The adults range in age from 20 to 65. People seem healthy and purposeful. Given the wind turbines, generators, herd animals and fields, the place seems to be rather self-sufficient.The satellite dishes imply the group is not cut off, however. Many here have military training. Yet, with the exception of some utility knives, no one is armed except you and I.”

“I’m not armed.” 

He broke his observation sweep and locked on her. She smiled and stepped from the swing, spinning slowly. She may not be in her trademark color, but Nat often favored skin hugging fabrics. She extended her hand and he took it. “Just because you carry no weapon, does not mean you are unarmed, Natasha.” 

She stepped and turned into him as though they were dancing. The maneuver was familiar enough. She pressed her back to his chest long enough to acknowledge her agreement with a light laugh. Then, she spun away. She was glorious when she was playful.

He watched her come to stillness, facing him, just that step and a turn between them. “What  **is** going on here?”

“I asked you to report, and you gave me your tactical assessment, exactly what I asked for. But, there is more. Here James, here there is life. Look closely.” She waited, as if he was to find something specific. “This **is** life.”

She smiled at the 8-year-old girl who ran toward the playground. Off in the distance, a thin voice counted down, “3...2...1...Come out, come out wherever you are!” The girl hid behind the bushes that grew at the side of a sand hill. 

“Nat…” He trailed off. He did not know how to deal with a starry-eyed Natasha Romanoff. That was not a skill he had ever needed before. “It’s nice, I suppose…But, you’ve been here for months. You’ve invested money.” He caught the twinkle in her eye. “Why?”

“You can stay and find out, or you can go back and tell the boys I ran off to join a convent.” She turned and began to walk.

“If I stay, what would I do?”

“Take what you need.”

“What?” His steps were longer than hers and he was now walking at her side.

“Do no harm. Take what you need. Share what you can.” She glanced sideways. “It’s our motto. My class is starting soon. You should come. I could use a good partner.”

Natasha Romonoff was quoting a motto. Now, there was going to be class. He still had no idea what they were actually doing.

Class turned out to be ballet. Nat was teaching dance to children and adults. She introduced him as an old friend and made that day’s class about pas de deux. Everyone selected a partner and she walked them through some basic combinations. He was rusty, but it was easy to find a flow at her side. He watched her. He watched her students. He noted the man who stood in the back of the large room, observing. The big blonde wore jeans and a t-shirt that probably should have been one size larger. In spite of being dressed like an ass, he watched the class fondly. Some of the kids waived at him and asked him to join. Steve, they called him. Steve declined and left the room. Watching that ass walk away, it would have been better if he stayed and showed it off. 

After they straightened up from class, Natasha took hold of his arm. “Before dinner, I’d like to reintroduce you to Steve.”

“Steve was the man who was watching class? I don’t know him.” Bucky knew who Steve Rogers was. He’d run across the name in his research. Rogers was ex-military and had gotten this little community off the ground. They had never worked together. What was she talking about?

“Steve Rogers knows James Buchanan Barnes. Something about you pulling him out of a fight where he busted his lunchbox and his arm. Apparently, such gallantry was immediately followed by you getting a black eye.”

That Stevie had been skinny, with more attitude than he had height to contain. The first day at a new school, Bucky had watched little Stevie take on a bully twice his size. The bigger kid had been teasing kids from a lower grade just long enough for Stevie to decide to whack the bully over the head with an Ewok lunchbox—one of the old-style metal ones. When Bucky pulled him out, he was rewarded with a black eye. The bully got two. Afterwards, the boys had been inseparable for years.

Bucky had researched the community, but his digging into Rogers was about his adult life and career. He kicked himself for not making the connection earlier. “There is no way that Stevie Rogers went from the asthmatic twig I knew to that prime example of a man who was standing here earlier.” 

Natasha was looking just past his ear with a little smirk. 

“I ate my vegetables.” Steve’s voice was deep, with just a hint of Brooklyn. “Hi, Buck.” Steve clapped him on the shoulder. 

“Holy shit, Stevie. That’s a lot of vegetables.” Only years of schooling his expression made the blush not rise to his cheeks. “What are you doing out here?”

The toothy smile and those bright blue eyes absolutely belonged to his childhood friend. “Besides being a ‘prime example of a man’?” That smirk also belonged to Stevie, though the look turned serious. “We’re building something beautiful. I got tired of waiting for better, so we’re just doing it. Anyone is welcome in our community. We ask for a few simple things: do no harm; take what you need; share what you can.” It was the same intonation that Nat had used earlier, but Steve added something to it. He made you want to believe in the simple hope. “What do you need, Buck?”

It was not the question that gave him pause. It was the intensity. He was not prepared to stand before that expanse of crystal blue. Only when he looked away, could he breathe. He scrambled for a response. “Don’t know, man. I’m just checking on Nat.”

Steve grinned and then stepped towards Natasha. He kissed her cheek, and his hand slid behind her back while he did. “Natasha is a wonderful addition here. We are grateful for all she chooses to share.”

How did he survive dressing like a prick and sounding like a pretentious asshole? The Stevie he once knew was neither of those things. Actually, with that connection made, the man probably meant every word. Steve clapped his shoulder again.

“I just came to say hello and see how you were getting on. I’ve got some things to sort out before dinner.” It was very difficult to mesh skinny Stevie with the backside of the chiseled man walking away.

“What. The fuck. Was that?” With Steve gone, Bucky asked the question to Natasha, to her little smile, and to the room. Not a single one answered as he drew his hand down the side of his face, so he tried something more likely to get a response, “Steve in charge here?”

“In a sense, yes.” The look she flashed him was confirmation enough of questions he was not going to voice. Her head bobbed as she reattached her hair tie. When her hands came down, his hand was out to hold her left. She allowed it and paused.

“Do you trust him?” He asked.

“To reimagine the world.”

There was no way Natasha Romanoff would join a cult.

**

Bucky had not quite seen all 125 members of the community, but he was closing in on that number. While he and Natasha were eating, people came in and out of the communal dining area, including Steve. Steve was received by all with smiles and waves; hand shakes and back slaps; and a number of hugs. He was in constant motion. Steve did not come to speak to them again, but the smile sent their way seemed genuine. 

**

Natasha took him to her place. She had an apartment in one of the multi-family buildings. She did not unlock the door to get in. The place was tidy. Moreover, it was cozy. There was an afghan on the couch, paintings on the walls, and a white and blue checked tablecloth. In the center of the table were flowers, in a vase. Natasha Romanoff had flowers. 

“Pick your chin up, James.” She noted, though her back faced him from the open fridge. She turned and waved a brown bottle in his direction. “You’ll start catching flies.”

“So, this is  **life** ?” He asked, accepting the bottle and twisting the cap off. 

“You’ll have to see if you agree.” She shrugged her shoulders and took a drink. 

“It looks like you’re staying.”

“For now.”

Well, if she was still not going to hand him answers, he would stay for a bit too. He had expected nothing less. What he had not planned on was the way she was looking at him right now.

“Shower’s over there. Bedroom's this way.”

He smiled. They really were such a good fit. Sure, fraternization was officially frowned upon. But, both of them had always been very selective about what rules got followed in what situations. “I didn’t realize that was why you invited me to stay. You seem a bit occupied.” He remained where he was and swirled the contents in the bottle.

Natasha knew what he was waiting for. “Neither Steve nor I are exclusive. He is aware of what exists between you and I.”

He grinned and finished his beer. That Natasha was not exclusive, was a common situation. But, she had explicitly included Steve. That was interesting.

“Then, if you don’t mind, I’m going to start with a shower.” He took in her little nod and watched her throat as she upended her bottle. When he turned, he caught the petals fluttering from the center of the table. A window must be open. Natasha only got this cocky when she was damn sure she was the most dangerous thing around.

Showers were great spots for thinking, but at the moment he had more questions than answers: were the flowers from Steve? Likely. Would Natasha be naked when he finished showering? Nah, she’d want a shower first. Was Steve part of the reason she was here? He didn’t know. 

Steve Rogers; Little Stevie Rogers who liked to perch in a tree and draw; Little Stevie who never backed down from a fight; Little Stevie who was not so little any more. What happened to him after Bucky moved states away? Why was he building this community—“reimagining the world” as Natasha put it? Why did she trust him? Why did Natasha make sure he knew Steve wasn’t exclusive? Was Steve running a harem? Bucky barked out a laugh. Sure, goody-goody, nice boy Stevie Rogers was a cult leader with a harem, and he had access to all the pretty men and women he wanted. 

Oh.

That was why she picked that phrasing. She knew what Bucky liked and apparently grown-up Steve Rogers played ball on multiple teams.

Well, now. He had a few more reasons to hang out for a while. 

*********

In the morning, Natasha asked what sort of work Bucky wanted to do that day. She suggested that he join her and work on translations. Given the diversity of people that made up this community, they hired on for a lot of language work. Daily, they did written and audio translation in the most common world languages, and some of the less common. He asked for other options and she took him to the common building where meals were served. He thought about calling it a cafeteria, but the word seemed not to fit.

A simple chalk board listed activities and desired completion dates. Impending deadlines and necessary items were marked with colored magnets. Bucky chuckled, half the community was doing linguistics on a world-wide stage, he was going to join—the names were blurred and he had to squint—Sam and Scott in fixing the pasture fencing. He wanted to get a better idea of how things were actually done, so he needed to work where he could talk to people. 

Natasha walked him over to a couple of guys with Steve. Steve was talking and everyone’s focus was on him. Even in nearby groups, it was obvious they were paying attention to his every word. Steve seemed unaffected. He directed his words to the men in his immediate circle, and everyone nearby got acknowledgement or a nod, even Natasha and Bucky.

“Let me know if we need anything special to reinforce that section. This is the second time this season it’s needed repair.” Steve said before turning and clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Nice to see you again, Buck. What are you going to be assisting with today?” The first statement was warm and personal. The second held no question that he  **would** be assisting. Bucky knew a few officers who could project both purposes, but none so smoothly.

“I’ve done some fence work in the past, so I thought I’d join these guys.” Bucky was also accomplished in people management, so he used his gaze to invite them in. Natasha allowed the corner of her lips to lift. 

Steve let go and wished them luck. He walked away with Natasha. 

“So,” the man named Scott started, “I understand you’re the reason my application to be Natasha’s dance partner has been denied. Again.”

Sam soft-punched his shoulder, “Or, it could be you don’t know anything about ballet.” Sam nodded his head to the door. “We’ve got work to do.”

Both men fell into line behind Sam. Scott was still talking.

That was useful. Bucky could point him in a direction and let him go. Scott talked about his enlisted time. He talked about coming here. He talked about finding a place where he could have some structure and not just be ordered around. He talked about Steve. When Bucky asked about if this place was Steve’s, Scott hesitated for the first time. 

“Well, not really. Steve says he doesn’t own this. He says it belongs to the community. But, it’s obvious he loves everything here and he wants the best for us. Steve says he’s not in charge but everyone listens to him. He makes suggestions and people just follow them.” Scott shrugged. “They’re good suggestions.”

While Scott had been the one talking for hours, Sam’s reactions were more telling. He did not interrupt, but it was obvious what he thought of the tales. Some were quite embellished according to Sam’s eyebrows. Here, he opened his mouth, but then closed it again. Bucky turned fully to him, “What would you like to add?” 

“Steve’s vision and planning got this started, sure. But, this is a work of heart, and that takes everyone.” Sam paused and Bucky waited, rather surprised that Scott didn’t jump back in. Sam threaded the wire through the loop he had formed. “If we’re able to build this community following Steve Rogers, then I suppose we made the right choice.”

Bucky responded, “The man sounds like a saint.”

Sam looked up, “Steve Rogers is not a saint. He’s a man, just like you and me.”

“There’s no one quite like Steve though.” Scott chimed in. Apparently, 45 seconds was the limit on not sharing his thoughts. “Even when my own family couldn’t find a way to live with me after my tour was up, Steve helped me find my pride again.” Scott went on, over-sharing. 

Sure, nothing cult-like to see here.

*********

Bucky let himself into Natasha’s apartment when the work was finished. He took a quick shower and let the light scents of her bath products lead his thoughts to wandering. He could see the draw of this little community. It was not military, but it was organized. And, apparently, people were not avoided nor shunned if they were dealing with trauma. The bonding among the ex-military members of the community was strong. In a unique way, that bond extended to those who had not served. The community itself was the glue. It was rather amazing, on the surface. However, the job at which Bucky excelled was finding weaknesses. He would keep looking.

********

After three days of talking to others, it was not a surprise when Steve clapped him on the back and suggested they work together the next morning. Bucky had been taking physical jobs: fixing fences, storing feed, moving things. Steve had some wood that needed chopping. He led the way to a side-by-side and climbed in. 

Several minutes had passed since Steve said, “Hey Buck, come chop wood with me,” his hand resting on a shoulder. He had not said anything after, just smiled and waited on Bucky’s agreement to turn and walk away. The silence continued as they rolled down the road to a wide spot between the trees. The empty trailer bounced behind the vehicle. 

Steve parked and turned, “So, did we earn the seal of approval?” His right elbow perched on the seat back, his left on the steering wheel.

“Sure. There are good looking hardwoods around here.”

With his hips canted sideways, their knees almost touched. “Buck,” Steve’s smile was light, though his focus was quite a bit heavier. “You spent weeks researching us and the past few days talking to everyone here. Natasha tells me you’re an excellent judge of a system. What do you think?”

He had not talked to everyone. Steve, for the record, had been busy—paying attention, apparently. Not that Bucky should be surprised. The little community was anchored in work that needed to be done and in play. Play would not usually be described as necessary, but there was an intentionality here that seemed not to exist in most places. And everywhere, whether there was work or play, was Steve. “People are happy here with what you’ve done. There is a very strong sense of community and of wanting to see this place succeed. Multiple people have told me they’re glad to have someone else thinking about joining.”

Steve nodded along. “Are you?”

“Don’t know, man.” If the vehicle had been enclosed, stuffy would have been the right word as suddenly it was a struggle just to breathe. “I’m just checking...” His hand ran up the back of his neck and stopped when Steve interrupted his mumble.

“On Nat. I know.” Steve’s smile finally reached his eyes. “She’s good.”

“That and more.” The breeze tugged a strand of hair over Bucky’s cheek. Brushing it away would have interrupted. So, he ignored the tickle and sat in the warmth of that smile. 

“Yeah,” Steve finally moved and grabbed the overhead bar, half-stepping, half-swinging out of the vehicle. “I wish she would agree to model for me though.”

“Model? What modeling do you do here?” Bucky followed suit and got out. He pulled gloves and tools from the back.

Steve laughed. It was demure from such a big man. Sometimes, it was really hard to see the boy who once was his best friend. Other times, like this one, the memory slapped him across the face. “No, not for us, just for me. I want to draw her.” Steve hooked the splitting ax and the sledge on his shoulder and looked over. “She says she can think of better things to do than sit in one place for an hour.”

Bucky nodded. “I’m betting that doesn’t stop you from drawing her.”

“Never has.”

“Probably involves fewer fire escapes than it used to though.” Bucky grinned at him. Little Stevie was always climbing to any spot that was up off the ground. He would sit on fire escapes, on building ledges, in trees, whatever, and draw. He drew people and animals against the brick and concrete of the city. Sometimes, he found the softest corners and gardens in Brooklyn, and you could hardly tell the location. Back then, none of those subjects sat and posed for him.

Now, Steve laughed from his chest, a bigger thing that would not have fit the young climbing artist. Not that Stevie had not laughed large at the age of 10, it just did not fit the boy. “No. I no longer climb the trees to draw. But funnily, no one ‘trips’ over me anymore either.” There was a glimmer in his eye that fit Rogers at any size. 

It was rather surprising to Bucky to find his guard relaxed. He had been holding more tension than he had realized. Over the last few days, he had confirmed that many believed Steve was a natural born leader. People said that he was decisive and had an ethical code that one could hardly argue with. They described him as the kind of guy who would not just give you the shirt off his back, but stop to make sure you were fully clothed for the week. Bucky could certainly see the boy he had known becoming that sort of man. He knew why people followed leaders like that—he knew why he questioned them.

Few could maintain the balance: care for those who followed them and self-preservation. Steve seemed to be managing, however. He had convinced Natasha. That took much more than the finely sculpted set of pecs that hefted the ax in such a mesmerising rhythm. The rounds that had been left to dry after the trees were felled were large. It took repeated strikes to halve them and start fractioning off splits. Steve took to the task like he had been born to it and not the city.

Bucky felt like he held his own. Through it all, they joked, they laughed, and they filled the trailer with neat stacks. Steve loaded his tools into the side-by-side and finished his water. He needed it as his shirt was soaked through. Bucky’s was in the same state. Exhaustion settled into his bones.

When they sat next to each other again, Steve turned the full shine of his smile on him. “Natasha’s going to come by tonight for a movie. You’re welcome to join us.” 

That look, Bucky knew that look. He hadn’t expected it from Steve. Usually, he was the one giving it, inviting another to join him and Nat. She had been right. She always was. “While I appreciate the invitation,” Bucky met Steve’s look with one of his own, and set his hand on Steve’s arm. “After today, I’m likely to just crash and sleep. I’ve not been getting much lately.”

Steve softened, “Then you should rest. We’ll all get together another day.”


	2. Chapter 2

The crunch brought him to full awareness. He rolled from the cot and grabbed his improvised weapon, a fragmented section from some metal post. They had found his hiding place. His fingers tightened around the handle of the knife. Oh, right, he was holding the knife he had found earlier. They moved in the darkness. There were two, they were trying to approach him from both sides. The one on his left would have a harder time because of the bed between them, so he focused on the one closing on the right. A boot scraped on loose gravel. Now! He launched at his foe. If he could take this one down— find the weak spot in their armor— he would have a chance against the others. His fingers grabbed for their bare arm and he slashed up. His strike was deflected and she was backing away, repeating his name. 

She did not press the attack. She was not wearing gear. “James.” She spoke calmly. “James, come back to me.” She said it in English. She said it in Russian. The attacker on the left did not respond. Why was she speaking in Russian? The team sent after him should not be speaking Russian. 

It was Natasha. 

That couldn’t be. Natasha was not on this mission. 

“James, you’re in my room. We’re safe.” It  **was** Natasha. She would not guide him wrong. They must be safe—safe in her room. 

This was the bedroom in the not-really-a-cult compound. He began to lower his knife and listened to the blood thumping in his ears. It was a dream. He was not in that forsaken hide.

He looked at the knife in his hand—his well-worn, comfortable, every-day knife. A bit of light marked the very sharp edge. The lump in the center of his chest threatened to suffocate him. Did he? was she? His head snapped up, wide-eyed. “Nat?” Her name was just a squeak that was hardly comprehensible.

Whether she knew what he was asking, or whether she was just diffusing the situation, her voice stayed soft as she answered the question he could not ask. “James. It’s OK. We’re both OK.” Her shoulders lowered as she half-relaxed her guard. “James? Can I have the knife?”

He flipped it and offered her the handle. She set it behind her. Natasha continued to face him even as she removed the weapon. She was still assessing his threat level. He was not a threat to her. He was never a threat to her. Except…

...he was.

“Nat, I’m sorry, I…” He looked around, adrenaline souring in his veins. How? What had brought that up? That failure had been so long ago. He could smell the hide where they had found him, taste it on the back of his tongue, and feel the grit on his hands. He rubbed them together. There was nothing there. “I need some water.”

In the bare light filtering into the bedroom at whatever time this was, he could make out Natasha’s pulse slowing and tension being released. With her usual grace, she turned, “Of course.”

She must have just returned from Steve’s place and walked into the middle of his nightmare. He breathed. He was not going to find sleep again. He let the echo of her words come back. “It’s OK. We’re both OK.” Even though he heard it in her voice, it still sounded like a lie.

Natasha’s quiet company was a comfortable balm on the sharp corners that awaited him in the night. As dawn touched the horizon, she brought him water and started some coffee. The needy shadows faded.

The coffee was strong and full-bodied. It was comforting and familiar. “Perhaps I should go back to base.” The blue checked tablecloth and the bright yellow flowers were not hard edges done in tones of dusty green or generic sand. There was a cushion under his ass. He did not belong here. 

“How long?” Natasha had a way of looking at a person that guaranteed she could see every secret, every flaw.

Bucky sipped his coffee. It burned going down and he held onto the bitter bit at the back of his tongue. “I don’t know. Probably until the next mission pops up.”

She did not even grant him the eye roll he deserved. She just stared at all of his uncomfortable edges. 

“A while now.” He answered her original question. “But when I’m on my own, I’m not…” He looked away. “I can’t hurt anyone.”

“And you think you should be working like this?” The woman never blinked.

That was a huge problem. If he could not sleep; if he could not tell where he was; that meant he could not work. Someone would get hurt, maybe not by him, but because of him. That was actually worse. Bucky set his mug on the table. The smooth ceramic bunched up the table cloth and he pulled at the lines in a failed attempt to straighten them. 

When he looked up, he asked, “What would you have me do?”

“Stay.” 

His eyes widened and his heart jumped. Coffee sloshed against the acid in his stomach.

“Just for now, and you can leave whenever. But this is not something you should do on your own.” Natasha was calm as she sipped from her own mug. “I would feel better if you stayed. You’re not the only one here who is dealing with PTSD.”

She was still talking, but it was white noise. Those were four letters he did not want to hear. He was James Buchanan Barnes and this was not his life. He did not have the night terrors, the jumps, the losses of time...except he had just held a knife at Natasha for entering her own bedroom. She was talking about calm surroundings; rewarding work with a low stress component; group. How do you talk to others about what you do not have words for?

“James?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“Stay.”

Bucky did not jump this time. He nodded to his coffee cup. 

**********

Sam was not a full-time fence technician. Rather, he was a licensed counselor. He had done some work for the VA before moving here. He ran the group sessions that Nat was talking about earlier. A conversation with Sam was where he agreed to start. 

They went to Sam’s home. Nat offered to stay, but Bucky declined. He was an adult and knew how to have a conversation. He tied his own shoes and everything. Besides, if it became counseling, he was not sure he wanted her here. 

If this became counseling, he was damn sure he did not want to be here. He was not going to lie back on a couch and talk about his childhood or his tours. Hell, even the things that were not classified, were not things he wanted to slog through again. Still, he stood in front of Sam’s door and knocked. It occurred to him that Sam might not be home. It would be more likely he was in the common building deciding on the day’s work or...the door opened. 

Sam looked him up and down. Then, he stepped out the door and closed it behind him. “Let’s go walking.”

There were some common paths— the shortest distance from here to there. Those were not the paths Sam took. They meandered in semi-privacy. The flies and the grasshoppers were their nearest company. They walked in silence until Sam deemed enough time had passed, or they were far enough away, or he was bored of waiting. “Natasha said we should talk. Care to tell me why?”

Bucky cleared his throat.

Sam shifted his gaze sideways. “She may know your secrets, but she didn’t share them.” 

“I’m not sleeping.” 

“Mmmhhh,” Sam looked forward and they kept walking. 

“Where did you serve?”

Sam stepped a little surer as he answered the question. “Air Force, 58th Pararescue. Three tours before I decided that service didn’t have to mean falling from the sky.”

That was an interesting way to phrase it. “So, you went from ‘falling to the rescue’ to fixing fences and people?”

Sam’s laughter barked under the rustle of leaves. The trail they wandered had entered a more wooded area. “It’s not exactly a straight line, but sort of. Though, I don’t actually fix people. I work with them to consider options for how things might be different.”

“So why are we out here walking down the path instead of me lying on your couch answering questions I don’t want to answer?”

Sam did not even pause. “Because you didn’t want to be there. If you’d shown up on my steps looking like you wanted a cup of coffee, I would have made you a pot. But you, James Barnes, showed up like a kid sent to the principal’s office in grade school.” Sam stopped just outside the tree line and turned sideways. “So how ‘bout we agree that whatever is going on is not what you want to have happening, and that it might be a good idea to examine that, rather than allow things to continue as they are?”

Bucky stayed in the shade and under the cover of the trees. That was essentially what Nat had said. He drew a deep breath. “What if poking at this makes it worse?” 

Sam met his gaze with one that was much steadier, “It might feel worse for a bit. That’s not uncommon when a person works through counseling. You’ve got some coping mechanisms in place, but they’re not completely serving you or you wouldn’t be talking to me. What I’m proposing is that we take a look at what is working and examine the things you might not be processing. That is likely to be difficult, but that is what will help you build a system that gets you to a more comfortable spot.”

“All of that sounds like something I can do on my own.” His brain had circled back to the principal’s office. He was sitting with an ice bag on his hand, assuring the principal the situation was fixed.

“Certainly, and you’ll continue to be the one doing the work. But, we’re talking about planning and resource access. A complex plan is more likely to succeed when it’s built by a group of invested people.” Sam nodded down the lane. Some distance away Steve was holding a door open for Natasha. 

When they finished talking, Bucky had the general idea. He was not sure that therapy would help. But, Sam was confident and Nat trusted him. Added to that, Nat trusted Steve and Steve allowed Sam to do this work here. Actually, it seemed that Steve encouraged this sort of mental health work. There were worse things in the world than following people who appeared to know what they were doing. Particularly, when you had no idea what direction to go anyway.

**

Bucky wandered. His head was full of a process that seemed deceptively simple. The ache in his mid-back reminded him that just because swinging an axe is simple, that does not mean it is not hard. First, we practice stress recognition and stress management. Bucky was half-way there. He knew how to control his body’s stress reactions. Sam pointed out that he could do it when he expected it. His current task was to look for stress reactions when he did not expect them. For instance, when he had a knife drawn on Natasha in her own bedroom.

He had not told Sam about that. He had told him about the nightmares and the day jitters. He had alluded to the convictions that he was under surveillance. That might not actually be a real concern as it had been reality often enough. There were multiple situations where knowing where every hide on the street was had saved his life. It was probably not necessary on the city streets when he was off-duty. But, he had been able to plan additional time to get places so that he could do so safely. OK, maybe it was a real concern.

Bucky wandered around the edges of the community and found himself at a pole barn. One of the roll-up doors was open. An older motorcycle was parked in the center of the bay. A man lay next to it with his feet sticking out towards the door. Bucky scuffed his boot on the cement.

Steve picked his head up. “Hey Buck, how’s your day?”

Well, that was nicer than ‘did the shrink say you’re crazy?’ Bucky blinked at the thought. That was not a Steve line. It did not belong in this moment. He knew Steve’s thoughts on therapy, sort of. “Why are you here?”

Steve turned back to the bike and twisted the wrench handle he had been holding. “Tinkering. It was sputtering last time we were out. I adjusted the intake.” Steve pushed up from the floor and took the wrench to a toolbox. He removed the socket and put both pieces in specific spots. The sockets were arranged in an orderly line, each one slightly larger than the next.

Bucky shook his head. “I wish you a smoother ride. But what I meant to ask, is why are you here in this place? Why are you putting so much effort into people?” That was not a fair question either, but he could not take it back now.

“It was do something, or do nothing.” Steve turned around and leaned back against the table edge. He had picked up a rag and was wiping his hands with it. Not that he could see the dirt or the oil, his focus was on Bucky. “And doing nothing was never an option.”

There was the boy he had befriended so long ago. The boy who did not care if the kid picking on others was bigger than him or not. The boy who called the teacher out when that teacher did not intervene. The boy who decided to make his own community with its own priorities. Bucky scratched the back of his neck and looked towards the concrete, following the ghost lines from past oil spills. When he ended up back at Steve’s boots, he mumbled, “Is it worth it?”

“The way I see it, Buck, there is so much suffering among people. Society tends to deny it, to hide away the trouble for the perfection of the magazine cover or instagram post. Doesn’t matter if the whole country decides something wrong is right. People are people and trauma happens. We get nowhere pretending it doesn’t.” The intensity in those blue eyes had not faded, but Steve’s voice had not gotten harsh where it could have. He was not lecturing or selling. He was just laying it out. “I spent time trying to protect people from the experience, only to watch my friends and others turned away when they needed time to cope with what we’d done. I was done waiting. No one was going to give me permission anyway. We built this place because the world is not what we want it to be yet.” 

With that level of sincerity, Steve should be selling it. Bucky was poised to buy, though he was not sure  **he** was worth it. “That’s rather wordy. I can see why you haven’t put it on a billboard.”

With a grin that echoed the joke, Steve replied. “That’s next month’s project.”

“Good luck with that.” Bucky stepped away from the bay.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve stood tall in the small bay. “It’s worth it.” He smiled.

Bucky was definitely buying, whatever Steve was selling. Fuck. If the billboard was just that smile, he would take two. He shook his head and kept walking. 

It was not that he couldn’t think with Steve looking at him like that, but he couldn’t. That man was intense in a way that felt more real than anyone Bucky had ever met. He had to keep reminding himself that he had seen Stevie muddy and broken...and skinny. He used to be able to close his fingers around Steve’s upper arm. Though now, Bucky knew what that skinny kid did with sparks of attitude he couldn’t contain. He became a man on fire.

**

Bucky wandered into the common area. There was always a pot of coffee on, and right now, he wanted an anchor. If his world was going to spin, something needed to hold him in one spot. There were a few people in the large space. He was able to appease them with a nod and a wave. In a corner of the room were a couple comfortable chairs that no one was using. He sat with his back to the wall and took a sip.

_ James Buchanan Barnes, what on earth are you doing? _ His mother would have asked the question just like that. And if she didn’t, his sister would. Bucky held his mug in both hands and grinned around the answer.  _ Apparently, I’m signing on for therapy and am probably going to get in some good fucking on the side.  _

That was it, right? This was no longer just checking on Natasha. He had been round and round with his thoughts this afternoon. He had talked himself into staying. There were a million reasons not to. He should just manage his shit and go back to work. He did not need to talk to a professional about ‘intrusive thoughts.’

Except, he did. 

He should not try to build something new while his head was on crooked. Putting relationships in the middle of therapy was a stupid idea, neither Natasha nor Steve should have to deal with his crap. He should not want to do this. Except, he did.

He had talked himself into saying yes to both. Was that really a good idea? No, but he had never seen a therapy set-up like this. Sam was down to earth, did not put up with bullshit, and pulled no punches. The community was built to support people living in the aftermath of trauma. OK, it was built to support people just  **living** . Coping with trauma was just part of the whole deal. That was what Steve was trying to tell him today. 

It was hard to know where to even start with Steven Grant Rogers. The problem was not that the things around him refused to add up. The problem was that they did. Apparently, Steve was a truly nice and honest guy: who meant what he said, kept his word, and cared for others. To top it all off, he inspired others to do the same. Strangest thing of all though, was that Bucky was comfortable around him. Bucky never let his guard down, but he did around Steve. Sure, they were thick as thieves way back in school. Sure, he had Natasha’s trust. Sure, he looked at Bucky like that. Did he clap everyone on the shoulder? Did it matter? Were the Rogers’s guards hiring so that he could further observe behavior? Hell, that would give him a third thing to say yes to. 

Bucky could square that if he was going to spend some time here, it would be much more worthwhile to get to know Steve better. Was he agreeing to therapy just for dick? No. Well, only a little.

**

On the list of things Bucky was good at was just doing a thing. What sort of things? Big things, little things, whatever thing he had decided to do. Which left him sitting in the middle of Steve’s couch with Natasha on one side and Steve on the other. 

Bucky had just asked a simple question. “So, I missed out on movie night. How do I cash in my rain check?”

Steve looked to Natasha, “Baby Yoda?”

She nodded and then froze when Bucky supplied, “I’ve not seen The Mandalorian.”

Steve grinned wide, “We can fix that.”

“What sort of people would we be if we didn’t?” Natasha raised her eyebrows high.

“Clowns, you’re both clowns.” Still, Bucky followed them to the couch and dropped into the center when Natasha waved at it. 

Steve fussed with the remote as he babbled on about baby Yoda and Mando and how  _ good _ this was going to be. 

Good? It had a classic Star Wars look and feel, but it was slow. Actually, slow was perfect right now. Slow meant that Bucky could use the time to take this all in. Sitting next to Steve was an experience. His movements announced what was important so Bucky caught bits of the show: that bar, the creepy client, the armorer who Steve waxed on about, the little dwarf on his weird mounts, the droid, and, of course, the carriage. Mostly, he watched Steve: leaning forward, his thigh pushing into Bucky, sneaking glances in his direction to see his reaction, the way his shoulders rolled back into the couch while he waited for the action to pick up again, the quick inbreath that denoted anticipation... Yeah, this was good.

With the credits rolling, Steve grabbed Bucky’s knee and asked, “What did you think?” 

His knee, Steve’s hand was on his knee. It was his opposite hand. Steve’s thigh pressed into his and his body turned toward the center of the couch, so one arm rested on the back and that hand was on his knee, like he did it every day. Steve had asked a question, Bucky was sure he had. “I’m sorry, what?”

Behind him, Natasha laughed softly.

Steve leaned closer, “I asked what you thought.” 

Bucky was not imagining it, there was bass in Steve’s voice that was not there a moment ago. He drew a shallow breath. “If you really wanted me to think, you might have set this up differently. All I can think about is what I want to do with you.”

The hand on his knee squeezed. “And what would that be?” Steve shifted forward, shortening the distance between them.

“I’d like to know how every inch of you tastes.” Bucky matched that lean and arched his back when Natasha’s hand slid under his shirt. Her breath was warm on the back of his neck. 

Bucky was nose-to-nose with Steve. Steve blinked slowly. “I’m sure something could be arranged.”

The space between them disappeared. 


	3. Chapter 3

Natasha said this was life. That conversation when he first arrived seemed so long ago. But that was the question he faced. Could life be this: get up, do work that supports oneself and others, spend time with people one could trust? And face the nightmares and the imposing thought cycles...yes, that too. Bucky was glad he stayed. Only Nat and Steve were getting him though this. Nat was her usual self, dry humor and all. Turns out Steve was flexible, in multiple ways. Steve could let him be when he was being grumpy, or search out what was needed when Bucky was being insecure. 

Actually, that was going really well. When you were little, you assumed the adults have all the answers. When you grew up, you felt like a fraud. For every answer you had, there were a dozen more questions that didn’t have any. Yet. Or maybe they’d never have answers. This one—that a thing could be among three people—this was both answer and question. Sure, sex was great. But Steve was comfortable, like an old friend. That he was an old friend was part of it. They even made Natasha sit through 80’s movies with them: Gremlins, The Labyrinth, Goonies, Tron, Dirty Dancing. OK, that last one Steve picked not because they’d watched it as boys, but because he really wanted to take Nat apart in the middle. Bucky still didn’t know how the movie ended.

They had talked about what they wanted from each other...right now they all wanted to relax and be comfortable around people they enjoyed. There were cuddles and movies and quiet conversations that acknowledged how hard it was to examine things in your brain. He even sat and let Steve draw him— though, it was really impossible to stay still when Steve looked so scrumptious as he focused. Was this how people actually live? No, he knew better. This was something special. 

It was going really well.

*********

He was wrong. This wasn’t life; this was a mess. He was a man removed from time. Not a moment had passed and he had aged 75 years in the process. This mess, the one that aged him, came tumbling down this morning. This mess belonged to Nick Fury. It should have been obvious that the Director would not leave them alone for long. Yes, he had told Nat at the beginning of this year that she could go on leave. She did not formally resign, but Fury could be gracious when he wanted to be, ‘Sure, take some time. You’ve earned it.’ He said the same to Bucky just over a month ago. They were a special classification, of course they’d earned it. 

This morning, Nat said she had to take off for a few days, a week, maybe more. The little lines next to her eyes were strained. Bucky knew how that conversation had gone down. When Fury wanted something, he was relentless, and he made you believe the world was ending. Bucky was damn sure that Fury had insisted they were both needed. Nothing else was going to make Natasha make that face. Somehow, she had talked him down to just one. She packed quickly and left in her trademark lethal black.

Bucky watched her drive away. Gravel spun out from under the tires. Gravel that had been doing its job, but under stress it tumbled to the side, out of sorts. Things were supposed to stay in place. There was a routine. Sam said following a routine was good. He also said that life does not care what routine you create, it throws out wrenches—or gravel—just because.

He was alone, standing in the kitchenette at Nat’s place, each hand on an open cupboard door, staring. The dishes were not complex. All he needed to do was grab a tumbler, fill it with water from the sink, and sit down. Instead, he was staring through the glasses to the laminated pressboard at the back of the cabinet. It was not hard: tumbler, water, seat. Eventually, Bucky released the handle. The door behind him scraped the floor. He whipped around, pulse thundering in his ears. Steve came through the doorway with a small duffel.

“Hey Buck.” Steve walked past him and sat his bag on the checked tablecloth. Steve did not ask why he was jumpy. Steve did not ask why he was standing dumbfounded in the middle of the kitchen. Steve just walked around him to the open cupboard and grabbed two tumblers. “Would you like water or beer?”

“Water.” He stepped out of the way. The chair at the table bounced on two legs when he pulled it out and canted the back to the wall. “Please.” 

Steve had a peculiar grace when he was in motion. Bucky had asked him about it once. Steve reminded him that he had needed to figure out how to reach and lift things before he grew. Then, when he put on the height in one painful summer, he constantly hit everything. The person before him had been little, before he was lanky, before he became this graceful man handing him a glass with ice clinking against the side.

“Thanks.” The water was cool on his tongue and down his throat. Bucky could breathe and his heart rate seemed normal now. Well, as normal as it got with Steve around. “Why is there a bag in the middle of the table?”

“I figured I’d stay here ‘til Natasha gets back.” Steve's smile lit the room. There was no need for the late morning sun filtering through the curtains. 

Bucky and Nat had been staying at her place. Occasionally, they had spent a night, or a day, at Steve’s. Steve had been to Nat’s place, of course. They were all kind of dating, or whatever one called this. But, Steve had never stayed the night. 

This was nice, and soft, and completely unnecessary.

Bucky set his glass on the table and clasped his hands in his lap. “You don’t have to do that.” He looked up to where Steve was standing, a chair back in his hand, stopped half-way out from under the table.

Steve finished pulling the chair out to sit. “Sure. I don't have to, but I want to.” Steve's hand encircled the glass. The thick bottom obscured part of his chin as he drank.

His big, strong boyfriend wanted to come keep him company while their girl was off working—how sweet, and how wrong. He was fine. He did not need reminders that he was not. He could manage this on his own. “I’m good Steve. You can go.” He nodded at the door.

The glass settled softly on the table as Steve looked him over, searching.

Bucky stilled. He dug into the empty pit that was his stomach and reached for reserves that did not exist. He stared back. Steve expected him to fold. That was not going to happen. Bucky put one hand on the table and pushed up. Water sloshed in both glasses as the table flexed. “I’m going to get to work.”

Turning his back on that forlorn look required a focus. Bucky silently counted the four steps to the door. His legs felt less likely to collapse with each moment. The handle turned and the door swept back as a fifth step moved him from its path. Two more steps and the door closed behind him. Steve said nothing. Bucky did not know what he would have done if he had.

**

Nothing on the board looked like something he wanted to do. So, he wrote “fences” with his initials, and left, on foot. Usually, fence inspections were done on a vehicle, but that would have been over too fast. Even walking, the process should only have taken a handful of hours, but it was evening when Bucky was staring down the lane to Sam’s house. 

They had been having regular meetings. Bucky did not want to participate in group, so meetings were just Sam. Sam told him to stop by when he was having trouble, or if he got stuck in a “spiral.” However, this was not a negative spiral—this was Steve having no faith in him. Bucky’s nails dug into the meat of his palm until he pushed his fingers out straight. Steve was trying to support him, but fuck-all, he was not a child. You **ask** an adult if they need something. Bucky counted his breath in, counted the hold, counted the exhale, and counted the hold—box-breathing, Sam had called it. There was a long way around to Nat’s place that did not walk past Sam’s. 

Bucky found himself staring at the wrinkle in the tablecloth where Steve’s bag had been. His vision started to swim and he drew in a half breath on top of the one he was holding. He let them out together. He could do this. He had sat for a while today, his back against a tree and played this over. It was true, he had not slept alone since that night he attacked Natasha. But, dammit! he could. He certainly did not need Steve to push problems where they did not exist. He should have asked. Had it gone differently this morning, Bucky would probably not be wondering why it seemed like a good idea to make him leave. 

**

3 a.m. was a wonderful time for more questions. Why was he a stubborn ass? This wasn't the first time he had asked that question. It probably wasn’t going to be the last. Should he just leave? If he left, Steve would not show up in the morning with coffee and a hangdog look saying all the right things and looking adorable. Fuck, he should leave now. Why was Steve such a pretentious ass? ‘Cause he’s human and he’s not perfect. (oh, really?) He was just a punk from Brooklyn who did not know when to stop. It would be really nice if he were here right now. What the fuck? Did Bucky need someone to sit guard at the door?

Bucky looked up from where he had forced himself to lie down in the bed. There was no one in the doorway, but he could see the scene. He could see Steve in one of those kitchen chairs, his boot on the frame. Why would Bucky need someone to guard the door? No one was in the house.

...probably. Odds were, no one was there. Odds could not stop him from sliding off the bed with his knife drawn. It was an easy thing to slide through the shadows and confirm he was alone. 

He had done that before, but he had never felt the need to do it here. That was with Natasha at his side. So again, why was he so stubborn?

** 

5 a.m.eventually showed on the clock. It was morning enough that Bucky could turn on the lights and get dressed. He went to the mess, or the commons, or whatever-the-fuck they called it. There would be coffee or he could make some. 

No one spoke to him. There were a few nods. He acknowledged them with a similar gesture. It was not their fault he had not slept. He slopped coffee over his fingers and stuck them in his mouth to suck the heat out. Fucking great start to the day, or continuation of the previous. That was what he should call this. He took his cup to that corner chair and watched the more well-adjusted people filter in.

Bucky knew it was coming, and he still was not prepared. Steve showed up cheeks freshly shaved, chops with sharp corners, and his hair brushed back. He was wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up like he always did. Bucky knew it was because the off-the-rack shirts did not have sleeves that were long enough. Knowledge did not stop it from looking pompous. Bucky sipped his coffee and watched him approach.

Steve generally walked like he had a purpose, but at this moment it was his face that was telling. His eyes flitted to the chairs nearby. He was undecided. As he closed, Bucky hooked his foot on the chair next to him, canting it towards him. He pointed his chin at the chair and raised his mug, hoping to cover his own indecision.

That smile—it was a thousand volts—then it was gone. Steve took the seat offered and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Buck, I made assumptions yesterday. I should not have. I’m sorry.” 

“Thank you.” Bucky relaxed the grip on his mug. Of course, the golden boy was going to come over here and start with an apology, as he should. But, fuck if Bucky knew what to do about it.

Steve continued, “Can we start this new day with the knowledge that I’m an idiot and don’t have all the answers?”

“Oh, a normal day, then?” Bucky allowed his smile to echo Steve’s. “You got some of those answers in your pocket though? I could use a couple if you’ve got some to spare.” 

Steve’s face finally began to relax. There were shadows under his eyes that marred the put together facade. He pushed back into the chair. “Work or play?”

Trick questions were unfair. But, there really was no trick. Steve always had work to do. So if Bucky wanted to be at his side, which he did, there was only one answer. “Pick us something distracting.”

**

Steve selected work that was half play. They got to be outside. They could talk and laugh. There was space between them when needed. He got to watch Steve’s ass going up and down a ladder. Bucky was able to return the favor. Steve got a smudge of dirt on his nose, that Bucky decided not to tell him about. They were cleaning gutters. It was exactly the kind of thing he needed to do.

By lunch time, Steve had washed the dirt from his face and they sat down to some sandwiches. 

“Steve?” Bucky did not specifically wait until Steve had taken a bite. He was staring at his own sandwich. One of the turkey slices had been layered off center and was slopped over the edge. He simply had not noticed Steve’s mouth was full.

“Mmmmph?” 

The off-center turkey was not going to be any help. “New day, right?”

Steve stilled. The lump he swallowed was the only thing that moved. “Right.” A bit of dressing dripped out of the sandwich and seconds ticked by. “How do you want to do this?” 

“Can I come to your place?”

That smile that could replace the generator was back. “Sure.”

Bucky picked at the turkey, peeling it off so the edge was even with the nice, wholesome multigrain bread. He considered sharing how his night went. But, likely, Steve already knew. Just like it was obvious that Steve had not slept either.

*********

Bucky’s duffel was green. It sat on the corner of a chest in Steve’s room, as it had many times before. This was better than a lump of black on blue checks, surrounded by stubborn pride. Here, Bucky could renounce the voice that said he “should be able to do this alone,” with the knowledge that he didn’t have to. He didn’t want to. 

What he wanted was sitting on the couch, picking out something that would make them laugh. Bucky drew a deep breath—in through his nose, out through his nose. He let the exhale pull his shoulders down. He was ok, he was safe. They were safe.

Though, Natasha might not be.

**

Steve was still flipping through screens. “Your options are currently: Men in Black, The Mask, or Toy Story.”

“We aren’t hosting an intergalactic kegger down here.” Bucky plopped onto the couch next to Steve.

“MIB it is.” Steve made a couple selections and let the entry sequence run.

“Do you suppose she’s OK?”

“She’d hurt us if we assumed otherwise.” Steve leaned back.

It was easy to follow his lead and curl into his side. An arm settled over Bucky. If he shifted just a little he would be able to hear Steve’s heart. He hadn’t intentionally picked a movie about new beginnings, about realizations. Still, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was time for a change. 

Maybe, just maybe, this **could** be life.

**Author's Note:**

> Ya know, if I were in a spot to write a novella, I’d like to see if these three could make this happen. As it is, we come to an end here, at this place of semi-stability. We don’t solve the world’s problems. We don’t cure PTSD. Life goes on. Really, there’s no catch. - SK


End file.
